


Impromptu

by ArminALeg



Category: Whiplash (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Slurs, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-30
Updated: 2017-08-08
Packaged: 2018-12-08 18:43:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11652453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArminALeg/pseuds/ArminALeg
Summary: Instead of being kicked out of Shaffer after that little fiasco at Dunellen, Andrew is given a second chance. Results may vary.





	1. one.

**Author's Note:**

> Do people even read Whiplash fanfic anymore?  
> I don't know how music schools/conservatories work, I'm just assuming they're like any other college or university.  
> Please enjoy and let me know what you think!

                Another minute slowly ticked by on the large ornate clock on the wall of Dean Harrison’s office. The office was all wood paneling, like most of the older rooms at Shaffer. And especially reminiscent of the studio band room. A flash of regret quickly passed through Andrew, he would most likely never step foot inside the studio band room again. The late afternoon sun threw a glare from the Dean’s framed degrees and pictures into Andrews eyes as he resolutely tried to avoid eye contact with the Dean. Andrew focused in on one of the framed pictures, it was a young woman sat behind a cello while an older man with his back to the camera waved his arm out to her as a conductor would _. Did you have a Fletcher in your life too?_

                A steady tap-tap-tap brought Andrews attention down to the desk he sat in front of. The Dean's manicured fingernail tapped once more on her desk before she began to speak.

                “Mr. Neiman, do you know why I called you in here today?”

                Andrew knew exactly why he was here today, he couldn’t get the feeling of throwing Fletcher to the floor out of his head, the thrill of finally surprising him for once, the relief of releasing all that pent up energy in such a physical way. Yeah, physically assaulting his mentor/abuser was exhilarating, but Andrew wasn’t about to let Dean Harrison know that. Andrew wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans before answering.

                “I, um, have a feeling I might be getting…kicked out,” the last words were mumbled as Andrew made eye contact with the Dean. This was fucked up, Andrew had just finally made it into studio band, had almost been in Fletcher’s good graces, he had fucking broken up with his girlfriend for drumming, and now he’s going to be dismissed because the best thing that ever happened to him was also the worst thing.

                “As I’m sure you are aware of, this school has a zero tolerance policy against violence of any kind. You attacked one of my best professors, and made a mockery of this school in front of many prominent names in the music community. I am fully ready and willing to dismiss you right now from Shaffer and never hear from or see you again. But…,” and here the Dean took a look at Andrew’s left hand still wrapped in a cast. It had only been a week since Dunellen, a week of not touching a drum kit, and a week of not seeing Fletcher. The Dean let out a small sigh and continued. “But, I understand there were some extenuating circumstances, and I am relieved you were not more severely injured.”

                “So, what’s going to happen to me then?” Andrew asked as he rubbed the cast on his left wrist.

                “Dr. Fletcher has spoken on your behalf, urging me to consider not dismissing you.”

                “WHAT!”

                That must be a mistake, why would Fletcher ever want him to stay? His last words to Andrew before their little scuffle were “You’re done.” The Dean had Andrew’s full attention now. She squinted and pursed her lips, most likely holding back a reprimand for his outburst.

                “While I am willing to allow you to continue your education at Shaffer, Mr. Neiman, some form of disciplinary action must be taken. Therefore, starting Monday, you will resume your original class schedule, you will be placed back in Nassau band as an alternate, you will not be allowed to play in any public events that Shaffer performs in, and when you are not in class you will be assisting Dr. Fletcher for the duration of this semester. Do you understand?”

                _No._ Assisting? What kind of assistance could a man like Fletcher need? Did he need help coming up with new creative and offensive insults to yell at his students? Did he need a dummy to practice throwing random objects at? Andrew sat flabbergasted in front of the Dean. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck. Andrew could barely open his mouth to contest this action before the Dean was speaking again.

                “Dr. Fletcher will be back to work on Monday, please stop by the studio band room at your earliest convenience to discuss the details of this arrangement with him.”

Andrew slowly nodded. The Dean tilted her head and studied Andrew. Her eyes shone with hidden knowledge. She gracefully got up from her desk chair and began walking to the door, Andrews cue to get up and get out. But before she opened the door she turned to him once more.

                “I know it’s not easy Andrew. The path to greatness never is. We must be pushed at one point or another.”

                Andrew walked out of her office trying not to think about how much he wanted to be pushed. _Needed_ to be pushed.

 

* * *

 

 

3 Hours Earlier

               “Leslie, he has potential.”

               “The potential to crack a few more of your ribs?”

               “He got me off guard, dumb luck on his part, really.”

               “Mmm-hmm, are you even supposed to be here Terence? I thought you were taking the week off to recover.”

                Fletcher rolled his eyes skyward and threw out an exaggerated sigh. The decision to try and save the stupid little shithead - who cracked two of his ribs- from being expelled from Shaffer was not taken lightly. But it was aggravating trying to discuss his point without showing that he had anything more than a casual interest in the kid. It’s not like Fletcher was obsessed with the kid or anything. But, in all his years of teaching and conducting at Shaffer, no student had ever had the balls to talk back to him, let alone physically assault him in any way.

                “You know the policy, Terence.”

                “Make an exception.”

                Leslie stared hard at Fletcher, trying to discern his intentions, motivation, his very being. Dean Leslie Harrison, was an astute woman, not only a gifted musician but gifted at reading people, which came in handy with so many students under her supervision. Fletcher felt too exposed with her eyes on him like that so he turned his head to examine some of the pictures hanging on the wall behind her desk.

                “I heard about Casey.”

                Well, that was fan-fucking-tastic, now she felt pity for him, maybe even disappointment.

                “Do you want to talk about it?”

                “You already know I don’t.” Fletcher tried to get his heart rate back under control by taking a few slow breaths. Leslie let out a small huff before she continued speaking.

                “Look, Terence, I don’t assume to have any understanding of the craziness that goes on in that classroom of yours, and I have always trusted your judgement when it comes to your “methods,” but you and I both know that you have a tendency to develop, how should I say this, _attachments_ to certain students.” Fletcher threw her a glare. Attachments? What the fuck? There was no way he felt any sort of attachment to faggot-faced Neiman. The reluctance of her next words could be plainly seen on her face.

                “I will allow Andrew Neiman to stay, but I want you to be honest with me right now and tell me there is nothing...untoward going on between you and this student.” Fletcher couldn’t hold in the obnoxious laughter when he heard that, because _really?_ Him and and the little dipshit? What was Leslie thinking?

                “Are you serious? Leslie, have I ever slept with a student? You know I would never do something as stupid as that!” Fletcher continued to chuckle slightly.

                She gave no response. Just waited for Fletcher to answer her query. A flash of Neiman’s face, flushed with anger and yelling at him quickly zipped through his mind. He could almost smell the blood from Neiman’s hands from that all night rehearsal before Dunellen. Fletcher shook the thought from his head.

                “Nothing is going on between me and that little shit stain of a drummer.”

                “Good, so you won’t mind if as part of Andrew’s disciplinary arrangement, he has to be your assistant for the rest of the semester.” Leslie smiled then began shuffling some papers around on her desk, marking the end of the conversation.

                Fletcher quietly left the office with a sense of dread and excitement warring inside his mind.


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Copy machine fail and late night piano lessons.

                Instead of going back to his apartment after his meeting with Dean Harrison, Andrew took a slight detour through the building which brought him to room B16, the studio band room. The lights were on but the room was empty. A quick look at the board by the door showed that they only had practice in the morning today. Andrew turned the knob and walked in. The acrid odor of wood varnish washed over him, and the slighter scent of cardamom, perhaps from someone’s cologne.

                Andrew made his way over to the drum kit. It sat illuminated like a beacon calling to him. He used his useless left had to tap one of the cymbals, the vibrations were familiar and calming. The doctor who had tended to him after that shitty day in Dunellen had said it would be a few weeks ‘til he could properly play again. _Give your arm a rest, don’t over exert yourself._ It was torture.

                “Andrew.”

                Startled, Andrew quickly turned on his heel and slightly lost his balance. Trying to right himself he sent the ride cymbal and floor tom crashing to the floor. The noise echoes loudly in the quiet, empty room. Fletcher is leaning in the doorway to his office, giving Andrew the same look he did when he walked in on Andrew practicing only a few months ago.

                “Hey.”

                “You seem to have a penchant for ruining my drum kit.”

                “S-sorry, sorry, I didn’t think anyone was here,” Andrew stammers out as he quickly tries to right the tom and cymbal and get the fuck out of there.

                “Why are you here?” It’s asked casually and softly, without any type of malice, which is surprising for Andrew. He thought Fletcher would be more upset after what happened last week. Not just upset, fucking pissed. But then again, he did just find out that Fletcher had supposedly advocated for Andrew’s stay at Shaffer. So, what was the old man up to anyway?

                “I had a meeting with the Dean, she told me I’m supposed to be your assistant for the rest of the semester. But, uh, I thought you weren’t supposed to be back until Monday.”

                Fletcher walked slowly from the door way to lean against the piano. Andrew could feel Fletcher’s eyes roaming his left side, not just his mangled hand, but also the neat row of stitches that started on the left side of his forehead and disappeared into is hair.

                “It’s impressive you even made it to the stage that day, let alone tried to play.”

                _Not impressive, just idiotic._ Andrew just blinks, because he has no response to that. There were many incentives for Andrew to get out of that totaled car and run to the stage, Fletcher’s threats and Andrew’s desire to prove himself as the best being the most important.  Fletcher looks to the ground like he suddenly regrets the backhanded compliment.

                “Be back Monday, 8 A.M., I have a few charts you need to make copies of.” With that said, Fletcher calmly strode back to his office, but right before he closed the door he turned back to Andrew, “Oh, and Andrew, don’t ever fucking touch my drum kit again, unless I tell you to.”

                Andrew stood alone once again, staring at the closed door of Fletcher’s office before quietly leaving the way he came in.

                The weekend plodded along slowly. Not being able to play, having no friends or girlfriend, left Andrew alone with just his thoughts and collection of jazz hits. He also tried to avoid his dad as much as possible with lies of being “busy.” The elder Neiman was convinced that Fletcher should be held accountable for the accident and possibly wanted to sue, too. But Andrew didn’t want to deal with any of that. All Andrew wanted was to go back to playing in studio band, he wanted to play until he bled, then have Fletcher berate him and yell and criticize his tempo and _push_ him to be great. One of the Greats.

                Saturday was spent listening to his whole collection of jazz music three times before having a dinner consisting of two packs of gushers, then knocking out on the floor in front of his kit.

                Sunday morning, he woke up aching and miserable, due to sleeping on the floor. He spent his day alternating between staring at Nicole’s number on his phone and staring at his blood smeared charts, tapping out the beats with his fingers. Eventually, bored beyond reason, he took two Vicodin and called it a night. He dreamed of blood gushing from his hands, and Fletcher standing uncomfortably close and staring as Andrew bled out.

                 On Monday, Andrew woke up early and made his way to Shaffer with a sense of anticipation thrumming in his veins. Perhaps if he worked hard and tried not to butt heads with the conductor, Fletcher would let him back in to studio band. He could only hope.

                Once again, the door was unlocked and Andrew stepped into the room. Everything looked the same as the last time he was here. Just as Andrew was about to knock on his office door, Fletcher burst out of the office, pushing 10 different charts in Andrew’s face.

                “I need 6 copies of each, then organize them by instrument.” Then he walked out the door.

                Where the hell was he even supposed make the copies? Andrew had only ever been in classrooms and band rehearsal rooms, and none of them had copiers. Andrew gathered up some of the charts that had fallen and went in search of a copy machine.

                He made it back 12 minutes before practice started, out of breath from running from the other side of the school.

                “Where the hell have you been! I told you to make copies, not to go for a fucking run around Shaffer!”

                “I couldn’t find a copy machine nearby, I had to go to the school’s library.” Andrew panted and tried to catch his breath.

                “You fucking retard, the copier is in my office!” Andrew looked to the opened office door. _Oh._

“Get the fuck out of here, go be useless somewhere else. And be back by eight tonight, I got more shit for you to do.” Fletcher began looking at the charts, so Andrew did as he was told. Well, that hadn’t gone as well as he had hoped. When Andrew returned later that night, Fletcher pointed him in the direction of a supply closet where he could find a broom and mop and some rags. He was then instructed to sweep and mop the floor and then disinfect the music stands because as Fletcher put it the room was usually filled with “germ-filled dipshits.” He completed the task quietly and quickly, even as Fletcher criticized his “mopping technique.”

                As Andrew was setting the conductor’s music stand back in its rightful place, Fletcher came out of his office. Andrew grabbed his backpack and started to head out.

                “Goodnight, Andrew.”

                “Goodnight. Uh, I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time?” Fletcher just nodded in response and even gave a small smirk. Andrew tried and failed not to stare at his face.

                The rest of the week followed in the same pattern as that first day. Andrew would show up in the morning to make copies or tidy up Fletcher’s office and then in the evening he would return to clean the floor and music stands. It was all very mundane and boring until Fletcher decided to change the status quo Friday night. While he was just about done mopping, Fletcher came out of his office and sat at the piano. He began playing something smooth and melodic. The notes carried something melancholic and it gently filled the room with a sense of sadness. Subconsciously, Andrew had known that Fletcher must be able to play some instrument, but he had never imagined he would be able to see Fletcher play, let alone be the single audience member to a private Fletcher concert.

                Fletcher tapped out the last notes to the piece, letting them sing in the air. He then looked to where Andrew was standing dumbstruck with a wet mop gripped tightly in his hands.

                “Finish up, then come over here,” Fletcher said nodding at Andrew and the mop. Andrew finished mopping then put all the seats and music stands back in their proper places in record time. He stood over the side of the piano watching as Fletcher tapped out a few random chords.

                “You know how to play?” Fletcher gestured toward the keys.

                “I know a little bit”

                “Sit. Show me what you know”

                They spent an hour sat side by side on the bench. Fletcher teaching Andrew a few things, and berating him went he got it wrong. Like when he was called a “talentless little shit” because he confused an E flat major with an E major. Andrew couldn’t do much with one hand, but when he got something right and Fletcher nodded calmly, it felt like air filling his lungs after going so long without breathing.

 

* * *

 

3 Days Later

                Fletcher was becoming accustomed to their little arrangement. Seeing Andrew every morning and evening felt like a constant in his life he didn’t realize he needed. And teaching Andrew piano was actually entertaining and – dare he say it – fun. But he was secretly awaiting the day when Andrew’s cast would be removed so he could go back to pouring his soul into drumming. So, when Andrew walked in Monday morning with his cast replaced by a brace around his wrist and index finger, Fletcher was a bit disappointed.

                “How much longer do have to have that on?” he asked Andrew as the kid began cleaning up around Fletcher’s office. Andrew had become much more comfortable coming into his office since his stupid fuck up last week with the copy machine.

                “The doctor said I to have wear this for another two weeks and that I still shouldn’t try drumming,” he said dejectedly. Fletcher tried not to feel too sorry for the kid, but he imagined it must be difficult not being able to get back on the kit. Instead, he told the kid to get the fuck out because he had better things to do than watch Andrew fumble around like a “worthless bum looking for scraps.”

                The week passed by much the same as the previous, with the exception that after cleaning the floors Andrew would join Fletcher at the piano for a little impromptu piano lesson. Andrew plodded along with his one good hand, while Fletcher tried not to be charmed by way the kid constantly tried to impress him or the way Andrew would glow with any scrap of praise Fletcher threw out. Sometimes Fletcher would even laugh at the way Andrew focused so hard on trying to imitate Fletcher’s exact movements on the keys. With each late night session, Fletcher could feel a raw, dangerous emotion building in his chest.

                On Friday night, Fletcher watches as Andrew gathers his things to leave and makes an incredibly stupid decision.

                “Hey, Andrew, you hungry?”

                “What?”

                “Food, you know, to eat. You want to go out? I’m buying.” Fletcher stares at the kids’ stupid face and gaping mouth. He mentally slaps himself for ever suggesting something like this. But Andrew surprises him when he answers: “Sure.”


	3. three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sort of date and truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized a little late that the name of the Dean of Students for Shaffer can actually be seen in the movie on Andrew's dismissal letter. Oh well, I like my character better. I haven't really described her appearance much, but in my mind she is Gina Torres.  
> Also, shamelessly stealing dialogue from the movie, 'cause things are headed in that final direction.  
> Enjoy.

                They end up at a place called Nowelles, a jazz club/restaurant, because of course it _has_ to be jazz. Andrew gets the sneaking suspicion that Fletcher frequents the place a lot; just about every employee they pass on the way to their table greets Fletcher by name. They sit at a secluded booth in the back near the bar, but with an unobstructed view of the stage where there’s live music playing. Andrew feels tense all over. This strange and spontaneous little outing almost feels like a date. _Is it a date?_

“You been here before?” he asks Fletcher. The older man gives him a small smile before answering: “I come every so often and play with some of the bands. It’s relaxing.” Andrew nods; he can see it. Fletcher may be in his element in front of a band, conducting and yelling at students, but here, sitting in this dark and familiar place, he seems to have shed some rough outer layer. The waitress comes by to take their drink order. Whiskey neat for Fletcher and a Jack and Coke for Andrew.

                Because Andrew is terrible at normal social interactions and doesn’t know how to start a conversation he remains silent and stares at the band on stage. But he can feel the heavy gaze of Fletcher on him.

                “Tell me what you think of the band?”

                “Yeah, they’re good.”

                “No,” Fletcher shakes his head, “listen, and tell me what you really think.”

                Andrew realizes they’re playing a song that Nassau band has recently been practicing. He can hear the rhythm section is rushing, just slightly, and the saxophonist seems to want to drown out the rest of the band, but to the casual observer they do sound “good.”

                “Well, they probably never had a conductor like you before.” That gets a laugh out of Fletcher, soft and warm. Andrew nearly has a heart attack just from the sound.

                “There’s nothing wrong with these musicians, they are talented, but they’ll never be the next Louis Armstrong or Charlie Parker. Like that story I told you about how Charlie Parker became Charlie Parker?”

                “Jo Jones threw a cymbal at his head.”

                “Exactly. Parker’s a young kid, pretty good on the sax. Gets up to play at a cutting session and he fucks it up. And Jones nearly decapitates him for it, and he’s laughed offstage. Cries himself to sleep that night, but the next morning, what does he do? He practices. And he practices and he practices with one goal in mind, never to be laughed at again. And a year later, he goes back to the Reno, and steps up on that stage and he plays the best motherfucking solo the world has ever heard. See, Andrew, most people don’t seem to understand, I’m not at Shaffer to conduct, any fucking moron can to that, no, I’m there to-“

                “-push people,” Andrew finishes for him. Fletcher nods.

                “I’ve been teaching at Shaffer for a while now,” he pauses and looks almost wistful, “but I still haven’t found my Charlie Parker.” The music fades as the band on stage finishes their set. Andrew keeps his thoughts to himself.

                _I’m going to be your Charlie Parker._

The rest of the night passes by peacefully. They order a small appetizer and pick at the food while they critique the various musicians that get up on the stage. The conversation is easy, and it makes Andrew feel warm and happy. And it’s weird to think the same guy who makes him feel like absolute shit on most days, could also make him feel like a tween with their first crush. As promised, Fletcher pays for the meal before Andrew can even look at the bill. _Fuck._ Andrew just really wants to know if this is a date.

                Outside of Nowelles, the atmosphere becomes awkward again when Andrew doesn’t know how to say bye.

                “Uh, thanks, for tonight, it was really good.” He avoids eye contact and looks at his shoes, because they’re very interesting.

                Fletcher must not know how to say bye either because he asks, “You live around here?”

                “A couple blocks past Shaffer.” Andrew waves in the general direction they had come from.

                “Take a cab.”

                “No, no I can walk.”

                “I’m perfectly aware of that, but it’s past fucking midnight, take a damn cab. I’ll pay for it.” And before Andrew can disagree again, Fletcher has already hailed a taxi on the side of the road. He opens the door and ushers Andrew into the waiting car. Andrew looks up at him, still holding the door open and staring at Andrew.

                “Thanks, again, I’ll pay you back.”

                Then Fletcher leans down into the cab and presses a chaste kiss on his lips, whispers “I’ll see you Monday,” and closes the car door, walking off into the night. The whole thing lasts less than a minute. But it completely short circuits Andrew’s brain. He slowly raises his fingers to his lips. _Holy shit._

When he gets back to his apartment, Andrew promptly masturbates to the image of Fletcher – twice – then falls asleep with all his clothes still on.

                Saturday morning, Andrew finally meets up with his dad to have lunch. His dad has been trying to spend time with him since the day he picked Andrew up from the hospital. Seeing his dad standing outside the restaurant waving makes Andrew feel a bit guilty for lying to him these past two weeks. Getting a big hug from his dad makes him feel even worse. They spend the better part of an hour eating and chatting. Andrew hears about his dad’s weird students and crazy coworkers. He keeps silent as his dad talks about his cousins’ newest accomplishments. Andrew talks about his boring classes and his annoyance with turning pages all day in Nassau band. He avoids talking about assisting  
Fletcher and he definitely doesn’t mention the sort of date he went on last night. As the time flies by, Andrew realizes he’s really missed his dad.

                “So, how have you been feeling?” his dad asks.

                “Fine, dad, everything’s good, I’m fine.” Out of the corner of his eye, Andrew sees a woman clad in a business suit step up to the table. His dad gets up to shake her hand.

                “Mrs. Bornholdt, good to see you again.”

                “Likewise, Mr. Neiman.”

                His dad gestures to Andrew, “This is my son, Andrew.”

                Andrew looks back and forth between his dad and Mrs. Bornholdt, before finally shaking the woman’s hand. She sits down at their table and Andrew feels dread settle like an anvil in the pit of his stomach.

                “Dad, what’s going on?” His dad doesn’t answer, just gestures to Mrs. Bornholdt to allow her to explain.

                “Andrew, I’m Rachel Bornholdt, an attorney, your father got in contact with me this week, does the name Sean Casey mean anything to you?”

                There’s a ringing in his ears and the dread he was feeling becomes full blown nausea. The attorney continues speaking when he doesn’t answer.

                “You know of his death?” Andrew gives a small nod. “Last month, he hanged himself in his apartment,” she says without taking her eyes off Andrew.

                “What does that have to do with me?”

                “Sean suffered from anxiety and depression. His mother claims it started during his time as Fletcher’s student. Now the Casey’s aren’t wealthy, they don’t want to file suit.”

                “So, what do they want?” The ringing in his ears grows louder, almost to the point where he can’t even hear himself ask the question.

                “To make sure that Terence Fletcher is never allowed to this to another student.”

                “He didn’t do anything.” This brings his dad back into the conversation.

                “Don’t try and protect him, son, he’s out of your life!”

                “Would you characterize his conduct as extreme, Andrew?” asks Rachel, “Did he ever intentionally inflict emotional distress?” Andrew thinks about a chair being thrown at his head his first day of studio band. He thinks about playing all night until his hands bled. He thinks about the words “You’re done” in Fletcher’s smug voice.

                “This would not be a public hearing you know. Fletcher would never know that it was you who spoke up.”

                _Yes he would, ‘cause I would probably tell him._ Andrew sits in silence for a few minutes before finally getting up.

                “Look, I’m sorry about what happened to Sean and his family has my condolences, but Fletcher never did anything to me and I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He goes to leave, but a hand on his arm stops him. His dad has a look of disappointment on his face.

                “Andrew, you know there is nothing in the world more important to me than you. Everything I do is because I love you.” Andrew shakes his dad’s hand off and walks out of the restaurant. The ringing in his ears doesn’t stop until he locks himself up in his apartment. He spends the rest of the weekend in bed, curled up under the blanket. When his morning alarm starts ringing on Monday, he stays in bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Monday Morning

                Fletcher’s week starts off shitty. After a whole weekend of worrying over his actions on Friday night, he wakes up late for work. About 10 minutes before his band rehearsal is about to start, he realizes that Andrew is a no show. _God fucking damnit._ He’s pissed and anxious. It only gets worse when bad practice sounds like a retarded pig trying to fuck a goat.

                “You ass faced moron! Do you even know how a trombone fucking works!” He ends up ripping up several charts and trowing his music stand against a wall, because that seems like an appropriate response. After the students are dismissed, he sees he has several missed calls from the Dean. He’s to report to her office immediately. Fletcher doesn’t want to entertain the idea that Andrew may have reported him to the Dean, but the possibility seems likely now. But he’s confused because, even with all his awkwardness and social inadequacy, Andrew had really seemed to enjoy himself. He tries not to dwell on it, it only makes his blood simmer with rage.

                Fletcher takes the long way to get to Leslie’s office so he can walk by the Nassau band room. The frosted glass on the doors doesn’t allow him a view of the room, but he stands by the door and listens. He can already tell the person on the drums isn’t Andrew, not just because Andrew can’t play right now, but because the playing is cold and clinical. Without Andrew’s passion.

                He knocks once on the Dean’s door before entering and taking a seat in front of her desk. He expects an ass-chewing and a lengthy lecture on fraternization with students. He is pleasantly surprised when she begins the conversation by asking: “Do you know who Jim Neiman is?”

                “I’ve never had the pleasure of making the elder Neimans acquaintance actually.”

                She glares at him. “Oh, shut up, he is a pathetic loser, who probably never achieved anything, and suffers from helicopter parent syndrome.”

                “Wow, strong words coming from you.”

                “Yes, well, while I normally wouldn’t give someone such as him the time of day, he and his lawyer have brought up some pretty strong allegations against you.”

                This stops his heart for a second. “Excuse me?”

                Heaving a large sigh she explains, “They want the board of directors to do a full investigation and professional review. They claim you endanger students’ lives physically and mentally, going so far as to make students develop depression and anxiety. They also claim you as responsible for Andrew Neiman’s car accident. You made him distressed and that’s why he crashed.”

                “That’s fucking bullshit and you know it.” The only reason Andrew was distressed was because he was about to lose something he worked hard for, anyone in that position would have felt the same way.

                “That is the reason I called you in here, there’s not much they can do without proof or some student speaking up. So, don’t give them a reason, try and be on your best behavior, don’t do anything stupid, Terence. At least until the board has decided what they will do.”

                Fletcher rolls his eyes, because everything about this is stupid. He’s worked at Shaffer for 20+ years and no students have ever complained about him, if they couldn’t handle it they would just switch to a different class or quit.

                “Alright.” He gives her a solemn nod.

                Fletcher spends the rest of his day (hiding) in his office, trying not to think about Andrew, like a little bitch. Evening rehearsal goes only slightly better than the morning, he only makes one kid cry, which is a real improvement on his part. Afterwards, instead of heading straight home, he pulls out a bottle of whiskey and a tumbler from the bottom drawer of his desk, sets a Miles Davis record on and pretends not to have feelings for a stupid 19 year old drummer. The music and whiskey makes him loose and content, and it shamefully takes him a while before he realizes there’s someone puttering around in the band room. He’s floored when he sees Andrew fucking Neiman mopping.

                “Where the hell have you been!” It’s not what Fletcher really wanted to say to the kid, but it’s already out of his mouth and there’s no taking it back. Andrew, for his part, doesn’t even seem disturbed by his outburst, he just shrugs and continues cleaning.

                Well, if Andrew doesn’t want to acknowledge that anything has changed between them, then he can do that, too. Fletcher takes his usual spot at the piano and plays until Andrew finishes his work. When Andrew slides onto the bench next to him, he cut his piece off short. But Andrew places his hand over Fletcher’s own and says, “Please, don’t stop.” So, he finishes the piece. After the last notes fade, Fletcher can feel a tension permeating the air around them. It’s a shock, because it’s been noticeably absent from their recent interactions.

                Andrew takes a breath and speaks, “Tell me the real story about Sean Casey.”


	4. four.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fucking and Drumming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, this chapter got out of hand.  
> The rating goes up with this chapter.  
> Enjoy.

                Andrew stays silent as Fletcher paces around the room. Bringing up the name of his deceased former student seems to have upset the older man. Andrew feels a sick sense of pleasure for it. _Are you upset? Say it so the whole band can hear you._ Fletcher walks into his office and comes back out with a tumbler of what looks like whiskey and a CD. After, popping the disc in the stereo, Andrew realizes it’s Casey, with the colorful sounds of the trumpet coming through the stereo speakers. Fletcher paces a bit more before speaking.

                “You are a greedy, attention seeking little prick,” he pauses to take a drink, “The exact opposite of Sean Casey.”

                Andrew didn’t really know what to make of that, but he did ask Fletcher for a story, so he’ll sit and listen for now.

                “What I told the band that day was true, he was having difficulties, but I put him in studio band anyway because he had this ambition to be something more than what everyone here was telling him to be. That’s what he had in common with you. He wanted to be pushed. Here, in studio band he was very quiet, reserved, hell I hardly heard him speak for the three years he was here.

                “Even with my most extreme…expressions and orders, he never broke down, never shed a tear, or yelled back. He just quietly took it. And each year he just got better and better. When he graduated, I was the one to recommend him to Marsalis for Lincoln Center. I went to every concert when he was third trumpet. When he became first, I took him out for drinks to celebrate, we laughed and joked about Shaffer, he had shed his shyness while at Lincoln Center. It was great. He was great. But he could be more, and when I told him so, he called me a “rotting bag of old bones” who didn’t know “a great musician from a piece of shit.” He left, and while I still went and saw him at Lincoln Center, he never spoke to me again.”

                Once finished talking, Fletcher takes a long drink. During his speech, he had migrated back to the piano bench to sit beside Andrew.

                “He was upset with you because he thought he had reached the pinnacle of his music career, but you knew he could do more,” Andrew says. _He was upset because he wasn’t your Charlie Parker._

                “He was great, he knew was great, but he could have been one the Greats,” Fletcher adds.

                They lapse into silence. Andrew almost wishes he could have met Sean Casey, he feels an unwarranted kinship with him just because they had both suffered for what they love. _Did you go home every night and practice until you passed out?_ Andrew suddenly feels the need to distinguish himself from Casey.

                “I _am_ going to be one of the Greats. I’m going to be the next Charlie Parker. _Your_ Charlie Parker.” He gazes steadfastly at Fletcher. Fletcher responds correctly when he says: “I know.”

                Fletcher brings his hand up to grip the back of Andrew’s neck and bring their faces closer together.

                “It won’t be easy though.” The timbre of his voice is dripping with something dark and arousing. His pupils dilating to eclipse the cold blue.

                Andrew feels his ears burn when he replies, “Good.”

                Their second kiss isn’t so chaste.

                It is heated, visceral and uncontrolled with repressed desires filling the air just as Fletcher’s tongue fills Andrews mouth. Andrew brings his body closer to Fletcher’s on the bench, angling himself so he can grip Fletcher’s back. The need to touch and be touched in return is overwhelming. Fletcher’s hand massages the back of his head, moving him this way and that with the kiss. His other hand is possessively griping Andrew’s hip.

                They break apart to catch a breath. Andrew’s lips are tingling and he unconsciously licks the flavor of Fletcher from his lips. He leans back into the older man for more, and isn’t disappointed. They kiss for what feels like years, but is really only minutes. To Andrew, this was inevitable. This is the merging of himself with Fletcher. It will ignite his creation into something more. The sensations are overpowering, and he doesn’t really know how to say what he wants so he just acts. Andrew slowly slides to the floor and places himself between Fletcher’s knees.

                Before he can get his hands on the zipper of Fletcher’s pants, the conductor holds him back by a firm grip in his hair, saying, “You know, you don’t have to do this.”

                Andrew’s eyes flutter with the feeling of his hair being pulled and responds, “I know. I want to.”

                Fletcher’s grip slackens and Andrew wastes no time in getting into his pants and taking out his cock. It’s strange, Andrew has never really done something like this before. A bit of dry humping in high school was the extent of his sexual experience. He never even got to do anything with Nicole. But Andrew is nothing if not determined, and he’s sure Fletcher will have no problem telling him if he’s doing it wrong.

                He slides his hands up and down the shaft a few times before putting his mouth to work. The taste is peculiar, but not completely undesirable. He must be doing something right because Fletcher lets out an inhuman noise and grips his hair tighter. Andrew then tries to take in as much of his cock as he can and swallows around it, he can feel the head hitting the back of his throat. Fletcher curses and his thighs quiver. Andrew moans around his cock, because he can’t believe he, Andrew Neiman, has reduced Terence Fletcher to this mess. It isn’t too long before Fletcher is trying to push Andrew’s head back.

                “I’m about to-“

                Andrew pulls off, but holds his mouth open. Fletcher’s cum coats his tongue and upper lip. Andrew takes pleasure in licking it up. Then, within the blink of an eye, Fletcher is hauling him up to straddle the bench. Without preamble, he undoes Andrew’s pants and gets his hand in around Andrew’s achingly hard dick.

                “God, you are such a slut, Andrew.”

                Andrew moans and grips Fletcher’s shoulders. He lets Fletcher’s tongue invade his mouth again. He’s already so close.

                “You’re such a good little cocksucker,” it’s whispered in Andrew’s ear, “Mine.”

                The possessiveness is what throws him over the edge, cumming into Fletcher’s hand. They sit still and hold each other for a moment. It is a singular moment separated from time, just theirs.

                Afterwards, they clean each other up (really Andrew cleans them up, “You’re the hired help, faggot.”) and head out of Shaffer. Fletcher decides to walk Andrew home and Andrew spends the entire walk smiling stupidly to himself.

                “Wipe that dopey-ass look off your face.”

                Andrew grins wider.

                The rest of the week is spent pretty much the same as the previous, except now instead of sitting and playing the piano, they give each other hurried handjobs and blowjobs in Fletcher’s office. Honestly, Andrew did not expect to be having this many orgasms not brought about by his own hand, even stranger is that he’s willingly doing this with his jackass teacher. Andrew has to slap himself just to make sure it’s all real. Especially, the time where Fletcher drops to his knees for him and Andrew nearly cums right then and there without being touched.

                Of course, this all comes with a few stipulations imposed by Fletcher. One – they cannot do anything in public where someone from Shaffer might see. Two – “This is strictly physical, I don’t do any of that talking about your feelings shit, you fucking faggot.” Andrew just nods along to this because arguing is pointless. And three – don’t tell anyone. ANYONE. This is all fairly simple. And Andrew basically agrees with two out of three, so there’s no issue.

                Thursday evening, after their typical sexual activities, Fletcher goes back to his work at his desk, tirelessly scribbling notes in the margins of charts. Andrew starts picking at some of his old blisters. Most have healed over due to not playing for so long, but there are a few he guiltily scrapes the scab off to try and make them bleed.

                “I get my brace off tomorrow, so I won’t be here in the morning.”

                Fletcher’s scribbling pauses for a second, then begins again, but he gives no response.

                “I’ll be back to playing,” Andrew slyly looks over at Fletcher and murmurs, “maybe I can come back to studio band.”

                “You’re going to need a lot of practice, you haven’t been playing for a while. You probably sound like shit.”

                “Hey! It hasn’t been that long, and raw talent doesn’t just go away.”

                Fletcher whispers under his breath, “Talentless little bitch.”

                “Fuck off.”

                Fletcher just rolls his eyes and looks as if he is dealing with a child having a tantrum.

                The next morning Andrew is vibrating with energy on the way to the doctor’s office. Almost as soon as the brace is off, he immediately goes home to play. Sitting at the stool in front of the kit, sticks in hand, Andrew nearly cries (stupid, fucking single-tear people.) The movements come naturally, his arms and feet just know when to hit a beat. The sounds washing over him feel better than any high he’s ever experienced. It feels like finding himself again (another single tear, god damnit.)

                That evening, he goes in a bit earlier to Shaffer, but instead of cleaning the floor, he takes a seat at the studio band drum kit. Andrew feels a thrill run down his spine doing something that Fletcher specifically told him not to do. He immediately goes into Whiplash.

                Not too long into the song Fletcher walks into the room, but Andrew just keeps playing. As the song is coming to an end he seamlessly rolls into another, one from Nassau band. Fletcher just silently watches. When that song ends, Andrew finally puts his sticks down, his hands aren’t bleeding yet, but they’re definitely sore. It’s exhilarating.

                Fletcher walks over and calmly begins stroking Andrews head before painfully gripping his hair and tilting his head back at an unnatural angle.

                “What did I tell you about touching my drum kit?”

                Andrew can shamefully feel himself growing hard in his jeans.

                “What are you going do about it?”

                Fletcher just smirks.

                That night, for the first time, Fletcher takes Andrew home with him.

 

* * *

 

 

                Fletcher admires the sight before him. A naked Andrew spread out on his bed, flushed and shiny with sweat. Cock fully hard and leaking a bit of pre-cum. It seems unreal. Fletcher takes his time preparing Andrew, slicking up his tight little hole until the kid is begging for more.

                “Please, please, fuck me!”

                Who could ever a deny such a beautiful cry.

                Fletcher eases his cock in slowly, and they both simultaneously let out a gasp. Andrews hands scrabble over his back looking for purchase, and Fletcher has a death grip on the kids’ hips. It is both too much and not enough all at once. He looks down and meets Andrews eyes, then begins moving. Andrew throws his head back, moaning, and Fletcher attaches his mouth to Andrew’s long neck. At Andrews urging, Fletcher fucks him fast and hard.

                “Fucking slut, you take it so well.” With that, Andrew cums onto both their bellies and with a few more thrusts Fletcher is not far behind.

                They lie beside each other on the bed, slowly coming down from the high of the orgasm. Fletcher uses some tissues from the bedside table to clean the mess, then he gets beneath the covers, motioning for Andrew to do the same.

                “You want me to stay?” asks Andrew.

                “Would you rather leave?”

                Andrew just shakes his head no and gets closer to him under the blanket. The kid hesitates a moment then puts his arms around Fletcher.

                “Don’t be so fucking clingy.” But Andrew doesn't move away.

                Fletcher doesn’t realize he’s staring at Andrew’s face until the kid points it out to him.

                “You like me.”

                “What?”

                “You’re staring at my face.”

                “Just wondering how you get by in the world with such any ugly mug.”

                Andrew just grins before responding with, “You said I was cute my first day of studio band.”

                “Don’t you know what sarcasm is?”

                Andrew lets out a little giggle, “I think you secretly meant it.” Soon his breath evens out in sleep. Fletcher traces his hand over the kids face and into his hair, playing with the wavy locks before finally drifting off as well.

                Fletcher spends the entire weekend with Andrew. Fucking and drumming. After waking-up and showering together the next morning, Fletcher has Andrew get an old drum kit out of his storage closet. They set it up in his living room and Fletcher hands over some charts to start practicing. Without complaint, Andrew begins.

                “You worthless piece of shit, this is a professional instrument not your daddy’s pots and pans!”

                It only encourages the kid.

                “You can’t cum until you play it all the way through without a mistake.”

                Andrew plays until his hands bleed and then Fletcher fucks him again.

                And that’s how their weekend passes.

                For Fletcher, this all seems too good to be true. It’s all too perfect, Andrew and his drumming, Andrew and his moaning, Andrew and his dumb ass face following him where ever he goes. He’s just waiting for shit to hit the fan.

                And it does.

                Monday evening as they’re walking out of Shaffer, Andrew leans in for a kiss. And even though Fletcher had already set rules about this sort of thing, he lets it slide because it’s late and no one really seems to be around, and returns the kiss. As he turns away to start heading in the direction of his own apartment, Fletcher sees something. Someone, actually.

                There, standing right outside the entrance of the school is Dean Leslie Harrison. Fletcher feels his stomach drop to the floor. She had seen everything.

               

               


End file.
